Kiss of Death (Sophie Anderson, Book 5) by P. D. Martin

By P. D. Martin

A tender woman's physique is located with puncture marks on her neck, and shortly the scrumptious notice vampire is on everyone's lips. All of FBI profiler Sophie Anderson's skills--psychic and psychological--will be wanted for her to figure out no matter if this used to be a thrill kill or anything much more sinister.

Exploring the blood bars and Goth golf equipment of L.A., Sophie immerses herself within the seductive tradition of self-styled vampires. Posing because the eye-catching woman Veronica and infiltrating a infamous extended family, Sophie will examine simply how deep the delusion is going for a few believers.

When existence calls for dying, not anything is sacred.

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Angela drank from her bottle. The rain fell steadily on the parked cars. Women in sneakers made a run for it, water spinning from the cart wheels. ” DESCE NT 45 The old man hesitated. He didn’t look up. “I’m writing notes. ” “He doesn’t. ” “Oh. I’m sorry . ” “Well,” said the old man. Angela was silent. Then she said again that she was sorry, and the old man scratched at the tip of his nose. He stirred a finger in the white hair of his ear. “I figure I’ll go on writing him like before. He’s got a wife and a little boy and I figure that’s why I’m still here, so I can tell him how they’re doing.

When they stopped, Angela’s head, lolled against the window, did not stir. Grant pulled the collapsed wheelchair from the rear of the wagon and after a few minutes the boy was in it and they were pushing into a bitter wind, his bare leg pink and white in the cold. No warmer inside the men’s room but at least windless, the wind whistling around the glass blocks where the caulking had pulled away. A large man in a checkerboard winter vest glanced at them and turned back to his loud pissing. Sean wheeled himself to the handicap stall and Grant said, Will you be all 40 T I M J O H N STO N right?

She tried to think. She tried to remember what that meant. How you were supposed to feel. Above her, the flag lapped silkily upon itself, susurrant as some creek or stream making its way across the sky. The drops fell harder. Colder. She pulled the black umbrella from her tote bag and thumbed the button and the device shot forward and flapped into tautness over its bat-­wing joints. She felt the pills under her heart like a hundred small hands holding it aloft. At home—at Grace’s—her little sister, who did not work on Mondays, was putting the kitchen back in order.

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